


Cry God for Harry, England, and Saint George

by teaandtumblr



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Awkwardness, FIFA-related, Football, M/M, Texting, Wrong Number AU, cause it's all about football, still mutants but doesn't really matter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-16
Updated: 2014-06-16
Packaged: 2018-02-04 21:56:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1794568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaandtumblr/pseuds/teaandtumblr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik gets a text from a unknown number. He allows it until his precious German football team is mocked. How that ended up with a date, he's not quite sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cry God for Harry, England, and Saint George

**Author's Note:**

> so I've been wanting to write an X-Men-ish fic for awhile, as well as a wrong number AU, and after an embarrassing incident this morning, I finally got an idea.

It’s a normal Tuesday morning when Erik’s phone buzzes to his right, indicating that he’s got a message. His cursory glance turns into something longer when he realises that it’s from an unknown number. He unlocks the phone with a swipe of his index finger.  
   
 _Ha! I told you, pay up! England always triumphs!_ _￡_ _30 if you please Hank, and perhaps next time don't be so stupid as to suppose we would lose. Cry God for Harry, England, and St George!_

Ah, football. Of course.

His interest is deterred as quickly as it was piqued. A wrong number, nothing more. Probably some hooligan still drunk and chasing cash from a questionable source. Erik’s experienced with ‘questionable sources’.

His phone goes off again. He expects it to be an apology.

It’s not.

_You, my friend, were completely thrashed_

That makes Erik stiffen because he knows who was playing last night. He _knows_. Germany has always held his allegiance and the allegations being thrown against his team are completely false. He’s never been good with injustice. His thumbs thump down on the keys.

_I was going to leave it but then the gloating started. You do know 3-2 doesn’t count as "thrashing" anyone?_

His phone suddenly erupts. Three texts come in rapid succession.

_Oh god, I have the wrong number. I'm so sorry. Please, ignore all that_   
_Though, to be fair, we did beat you_   
_I'm guessing you support Germany?_

Erik’s eyebrows rise. He’d figured his mystery texter would have vanished in a cloud of embarrassment but apparently his jubilation is currently overriding his common sense. Erik doesn’t know why he answers.

_You guessed correctly. And may I remind you, 1-1 against Italy compared to our 3-0 against France?_

The long silence he’s met with makes him grin broadly. If he didn’t detest emoticons, he’d do his hardest to find one that epitomised smug.

Finally:

 _..._  
 _Well that was a low blow if ever I saw one. You know our record against Italy isn't good. And you can hardly be proud of beating FRANCE_  
  
Erik manages a snort of amusement. He absently twirls his pen through the air as he types back a reply; and yes, there was a reason why all his pens were made of metal, or at least had metal present somewhere.

_Remind me of that when you lose to them  
_

The reply is fast this time. _  
_

_We won't ever see that happen  
_

He’s impressed by this man’s – he assumes it’s a man – unwavering faith in his country. He’s either a loyal, a through and through man…or he’s still drunk and has no idea what he’s on about. _  
_

Erik should probably have made sure his new friend was sober before getting this deep into the conversation. Which reminds him that he still hasn’t replied. He quickly rectifies that.

_Bless you, and your ignorance._

Nothing for three hours. Erik’s almost afraid he’s _offended_ the other man. He also wonders why on earth he _cares_.

_Did I upset you?  
_

Someone should take his phone away from him. Perhaps _he’s_ the one who’s drunk. He never initiates conversation, and certainly not with strangers. He definitely never gets worried about them dropping said conversation either. Maybe he’s missing Emma more than he thought.

Twenty minutes later his phone goes off – it’s long been switched off silent – and Erik catches himself about to use his powers to launch the device straight to him. That, he decides, simply won’t do and he forces himself to lean across the desk to grab it with his hands. It might not even be his mystery man.

He checks the screen.

It is.

_Sorry, I was in class  
_

And just like, the feeble connection between them snaps. If texts could carry emotions, his would throb with rage.

_You're a student. I'm not a student._

His phone displays ‘ _sent’_ and ‘ _1 new message_ ’ with only a split second between them. Obviously great minds think alike. Erik only has to wait twenty seconds before two more messages arrive in his inbox.

_I'm a professor_   
_At Oxford_

The added “at Oxford” grates on Erik’s nerves just a tad. Not that he isn’t impressed, he is, but it feels like a challenge, a testament to this so-and-so’s genius, almost bragging. Something about it doesn’t agree with him, but perhaps he’s reading it all wrong. Face to face, this conversation might have had an entirely different air. That’s the only reason he replies.

_Impressive. You teach...?  
_

If it’s something along the lines of Art, he’ll laugh.

_Genetics, actually. I find the subject fascinating._   
_And yourself?_

If Erik wasn’t on alert before, he is now. A professor of genetics. It’s a conundrum that closely ties into the following question quite nicely. Because how _does_ he explain that when he’s not busy organising and carrying out mutant extremist attacks, he moonlights as a banker, offering deals to…well, to use his favourite term, ‘ _questionable sources’_.

Only two people study genetics. Those violently for mutant rights, and those violently _against_. He wonders which his friend might be. Although, if he’s a professor, he could be in his sixties and then not be interested at all in this “new-age” mutant nonsense.

It’s only the fact that he doesn’t want to look intimidated that Erik supplies an answer.

 _I work at a bank_  

It’s not a lie, but it is, by no means, the truth.  
   
 _It must be some bank for the amount of time that took you to send me_

Erik’s ready to abandon the conversation when he gets another text. He’s so surprised that he nearly drops his phone.

_Bugger it, there's a great pub round the corner. Friday night?  
And because I know you’re thinking it, I’m most certainly not an old fart. I’m twenty-eight, thank you very much_

Erik blinks twice and reads the message three times before the words actually sink in. He understands that he’s just strolled into his thirties but he was pretty sure he was more familiar with what flirting looked it. It did, to his knowledge and experience, of which there was _plenty_ , _not_ look like this. It leaves his mind completely blank and he has absolutely no idea what to say. Re-reading the message again, he registers something he’d missed the first time.

_You do realise your message assumes I live in England?_

A beat.

_Oh, sorry.  
You legitimately live in Germany or something, don’t you? I apologise. I must seem a tad presumptuous._

If Erik had ever had any doubts that he wasn’t a professor, those doubts are instantly wiped. _No one_ uses ‘presumptuous’ nowadays, and never in a _text_. The urge he’d had to lie and say that yes, he lived anywhere but here, fades.

 _London_ _, actually_

_I've gone further for less on a friday night_

The speed of the reply catches him off-guard and Erik wonders if he is actually about to do this.

_Good to know_

Apparently, he is.  
   
 _I didn't mean it like that!  
I'm sensing you already knew that_

That’s…surprising. His attempts at humour usually go straight over his clients’ heads; either that or they’re too distracted by his eerily shark-like smile to laugh. Another text comes before he can comment.

_Believe it or not, I do still know a pub. There's a great one round Kensington_

Erik pulls up the Underground map from memory and grudgingly admits that one line change really isn’t that bad. He’s endured worse for far less valuable clients and pathetically small mutant gatherings. He can slot in one beer at the pub.  
   
 _I look forward to it_

It takes his friend a couple of minutes to respond and, if they were actually talking in person, Erik would guess he’d rendered him speechless. He instantly hopes this wasn’t a giant joke he’s fallen for it hook, line, and sinker. Because, if it is, Oxford University might find itself down a Professor…

It occurs to Erik, suddenly, that he doesn’t even know this man’s _name_.

He doesn’t even know if he is a _man_.

More alarmingly, they don’t know that _he_ is a man.

Before the epiphany he’s having can come full circle, his phone is vibrating again, and then once more.

_Right. Good. I'll text you the address tomorrow_   
_And time. Perhaps 8?_

_That should be fine. Although, you seem to be forgetting something_

Because Erik decides that if this does all go south, he won’t be the one who’s going to end up looking like an idiot.

_Oh yes?_

It takes Erik longer than he’s comfortable with to type out his message.

_Considering we’ve only just met, you might want my name  
_

_Shit!_

Erik thinks that particular message was most likely written and sent before the brain even realised what it was doing. The next message is more what he expected.

_Yes, sorry, my fault. I'm Charles, Charles Xavier_

Huh. The name Charles places his mystery man onto his side of the playing field but still…

_Erik Lehnsherr. Friday?_

There isn’t even a delay.

_It would be my pleasure, Erik._


End file.
